


Reasonable Doubt

by Trash



Category: Jay-Z (Musician), Linkin Park
Genre: Collision Course era, Jealous Chester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can’t help but think that you’re missing out on some great part of Jay’s brilliance. Everybody else follows him without thought but you just can’t help but tug away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reasonable Doubt

Leaning back in your chair; feet propped up on the mixing desk, worn chucks and old jeans with torn hems. It’s not that you’re tired or even taking a break, this is all part of your grand scheme to piss Mike off.

“Could you please just sing the line again?”

It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with the line. Everybody else thinks so too, but Jay is sitting in the corner gently intimidating all of the people in the room. They won’t open their mouth because Jay is there, lurking, threatening, like the human embodiment of HIV.

“I’ve sang it a thousand times.” Six, but it feels like a thousand.

Mike rolls his eyes and drops his head to his hands with a melodramatic sigh. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Jay moving, pushing himself out of his chair to tower over the people around him. All heads snap to look at him, and when he trudges towards the studio door Mike leaps up and follows him.

This is all too much. You can feel four pairs of eyes on the back of your head and you say “Fuck off.”

It’s Brad who hisses through his teeth “Why can’t you just do as you’re told? Besides...I heard repetition is...Zen?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m so fucking Zen.” Grit your teeth; pray nobody will say anything else.

Praying never really works any more. It’s the year 2004, the year of false gods and fuck religion. This all comes to you the second Joe says, “Just sing the line, dude.”

You tell him to suck your dick just as Jay-Z steps through the door with Mike in tow. You don’t like Jay. Mike once asked why and you just shrugged and walked away. There is no real reason. Although it quite possibly has something to do with the fact that the people who you used to consider your best friends have been reduced to babbling idiots who will follow Jay around wordlessly. Joe, for as long as you’ve known him, has done things his way, but now he does things ‘Jay’s’ way. Just like everybody else.

“You sing the line.” Under your breath, childish. But you don’t care.

“Chester,” You cringe at the sound of his voice, don’t even glance at him but you listen to him say “I don’t want to start an argument. I just want the best and I know you’re not trying your hardest here.”

You spin in your chair and glare at Jay. In your head you see yourself yelling at him, ‘You have no interest in our music! You’re here to kill time between records.’ In real life, though, you frown and growl “I’m tired. I’ve sang that same line six times already, the same way each time. What the fuck do you want from me?”

Every single person in the room stares at you, their expressions all exact replicas of Jay’s. You roll your eyes and shuffle into the vocal booth, watching your feet as you walk.

You watch them all from over the top of the microphone, your personal audience of six. They’re just waiting for you to fuck up again so they can listen to Jay tell you off, so that Mike can stare at you with that ‘I-told-you-so look’ he has adopted since meeting the great Hov.

As the music begins to pulse through your headphones you can’t help but think that you’re missing out on some great part of Jay’s brilliance. Everybody else follows him without thought but you just can’t help but tug away. Surely there’s something you can’t see here?

You hear a voice, full of passion. It asks “What the hell are you waiting for?”

The music through the headphones stops and you blink, your mind being pulled back to reality and you stare blankly at the faces of your friends in front of you. Somebody out there says “Well done.”

Dreamily you thank them, slowly remove the head phones and drift back into the studio.

Jay grins at you.

White teeth. Bleached. 

You smile back, just a discreet twitch of your cheek muscles. You drop yourself down into your chair, prop your feet up on the mixing desk, worn chucks and old jeans with torn hems...


End file.
